Clint turned his head and saw Lily sitting at her table. She smiled and he nodded.
“About what?”
“When Peter Forrest was found he’d been shot,” Burns said, “but his face was bandaged. He’d been attacked before he was killed—hours before.”
“We heard you had something to do with that,” Logan said.
“I did,” Clint said, “and I can tell you about it, but I had nothing to do with him getting killed.”
“Okay,” Burns said, “let’s start with how his face got like that.”
Clint told them about his visit to Peter Forrest’s saloon, his conversation, and how it ended.
“You know,” Burns said, “if he was alive and wanted to press charges, I’d have to take you in.”
“I know that.”
“So you lucked out that he’s dead,” Logan said.
Clint looked at the younger man.
“You really think I’d kill him to keep him from filing a complaint against me?”
“Men have killed for lesser reasons,” Burns said, “but never mind. Who else did you talk to yesterday?”
Clint told him. “Any of them turn up dead?” he asked Burns.
“Not yet,” Burns said.
“So you think he’s dead because I talked to him?” Clint asked.
“Who knows?” Logan said. “The other saloon owner got killed after you talked to him.”
“I never talked to him,” Clint said.
“Oh, yeah, you said that,” Logan answered.
“No progress on that murder?”
“No,” Burns said, “and now we’ve got this one to work on.”
“Where’s your boss?”
“Oh, he’ll be around,” Burns said. “He likes working on murders.”
Clint finished his coffee. “So where do we stand?” he asked. “Are you taking me in?”
“Not today,” Burns said. “Nobody saw you around the Lucky Lady after you left.”
“That where Forrest was killed?”
Burns nodded.
“It happened upstairs in his rooms.”
“Somebody break in?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Burns said. “but it looks like somebody might have been waitin’ for him when he got back from the doctor.”
“You broke his jaw,” Logan said, “and knocked out a bunch of teeth.”
“He should’ve watched his mouth, then,” Clint said.
“What’d he say?” Logan asked.
“Something unflattering about a friend of mine.”
“A lady?” Burns asked.
“Yes.”
Burns shrugged, as if that answered that.
“Okay,” the older inspector said. “We’re done . . . for now.”
All three men stood up.
“You boys know the way out,” Clint said. “I have to talk to someone else.”
“Okay. We’ll be around, Adams,” Burns said. “And my boss will probably come by to talk to you.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “I’ll tell him the same thing I told you, the truth.”
“He’ll love that,” Logan said.
Clint watched the two inspectors leave, then turned and walked to Lily’s table.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Don’t you have . . . company upstairs?” she asked.
“I’m more concerned with the company I just had down here,” he said. “They were the police.”
“And why were they here?”
“Because somebody killed Peter Forrest last night.”
She looked shocked.
“Okay,” she said, “maybe you should sit down.”
THIRTY
Lily poured Clint a cup of coffee.
“What happened?”
“I had gone to talk to him earlier in the evening,” Clint said. “We had . . . an altercation.”
“What kind of altercation?”
“I broke his jaw.”
She looked surprised.
“What was that about?”
“Let’s just say he said something that offended me.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the kind of man who can be offended.”
“Well, he said something about you.”
That surprised her, too. “Oh!”
“Don’t ask me what he said,” Clint added. “It was bad enough for me to break his jaw.”
“But you didn’t kill him?”
“I didn’t hire out to kill your competition, Lily,” he said.
“That’s not what I wanted you to do, Clint,” she said. “Do you think he had anything to do with trying to kill me?”
“I couldn’t tell from the short time we talked,” Clint said. “I was going to go back and talk to him again, but that’s out, now.”
“What about the others?”
“I talked to everyone,” he said, “that is, everyone but Harold Garvin. I did talk to his wife, Chris.”
“Oh, my,” she said, “I forgot to tell you about her, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought they were partners, but I found out they’re man and wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She doesn’t seem to know much about their business.”
“No, apparently he takes care of all of that.”
“Wouldn’t you think he’d be lying to her, then?” he asked.
“Why would he do that?”
“Did your husband tell you everything?”
“Well, I’m sure he told me what I needed to know.”
“That’s probably what Harold Garvin does,” Clint said.
“And you think that’s lying?”
“Maybe by omission,” he said.
“Well, I wasn’t really my husband’s business partner,” she said. “Whereas, I believe Chris is.”
“Well, she’s a partner who never goes to business meetings, so I think it would be pretty easy for him to keep something from her.”
“You mean like trying to kill me?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Are you going to have trouble with the police?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I’m actually getting along pretty good with the police. There should be a Lieutenant Hargrove here later looking for me.”
“Do I tell him where you are?”
“If you know, yes.”
“And what about the woman you came in here with last night?”
“You didn’t recognize her?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Do you know Adrian Webster’s secretary?”
“Sara Jane? Yes, we’ve—wait a minute. That was Sara Jane?”
“It was.”
“But she looked so . . . different.”
“Out of the office, I guess she does,” he said.
“So you were with her . . .”
“To try and get some information about her boss.”
“And did you?”
“Not really,” he said, standing up, “but I’m not done trying, yet. I’ll see you later, Lily.”
When he got back to the room, Sara Jane had taken her bath and gotten dressed.
“Who got killed?” she asked, anxiously.
“Peter Forrest. Do you know him?”
“I know of him, of course,” she said, “but I’ve never met him.”
“Well, somebody killed him at home, after I saw him,” Clint said. “The police just wanted to ask me a few questions.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“I need to go,” she said. “The bath was fine, but I need to change clothes and go to work.”
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
“If you’d like to,” she said. “We, uh, weren’t very good at pumping each other for information, were we?”
“No,” he said, “but we were pretty good, anyway.”
THIRTY-ONE
Clint was trying to figure his next move when ther
e was a knock at his door. He expected it to be Lieutenant Hargrove, but when he opened it he found a bellboy standing there.
“Telegram for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Clint said, giving the boy two bits.
“Thanks!”
The telegram was from William Pinkerton, asking Clint if he would please remain in San Francisco for a few more days, in the hopes that he would still be contacted.
Clint folded the telegram and stuffed it into his sad dlebag. There was no decision for him to make, since the police had already told him to stay in town until the first murder was solved, and now there had been a second. If not for that, he would have sent a missive back to Pinkerton telling him sorry, but he’d already wasted too much time on this wild-goose chase.
And then there was the dead man in the street. Was that a complete coincidence? Was he connected to the other two murders? If, indeed, those two murders were even connected. Or did he have something to do with the whole Pinkerton thing?
Then he had a thought. Allan Pinkerton, while a patriot and a great detective, was also a duplicitous son of a bitch when he needed to get something done. What if this had all been a ruse on William Pinkerton’s part just to get Clint out to San Francisco? And if so, why? With William and Robert, Clint had no idea how far from the tree the apples had fallen. He didn’t know the two men well enough to gauge. But if they were anything like their father, then he wouldn’t put it past them to trick him into coming out here.
Before he could give the matter any more thought, there was another knock on the door. This time it was the lieutenant.
“Do you have time for a talk, Mr. Adams?” the man asked, politely.
Clint, sensing the change in attitude, said, “Since you ask so nicely, sure.”
“Coffee in the dining room?”
“Why not?” Clint asked. “It seems a popular choice.”
They walked down to the lobby in silence and were seated in the dining room. They ordered coffee and sat back, regarding each other. Clint decided to make it easy on the man.
“So, you’ve either been told to lay off me, or you’ve decided I’m not guilty of anything.”
“A little bit of both, actually,” Hargrove said. “I never seriously considered you a suspect. I know your reputation, and nothing indicates to me that you’d come to San Francisco to kill a third-rate saloon owner.”
“What about the owner of a first-rate saloon, like Peter Forrest?”
“While the Lucky Lady may have been considered first rate,” Hargrove said, “to my mind Peter Forrest was just another third-rate owner. And no, I don’t think you killed him, either.”
“Why not?”
“Again, your reputation doesn’t show any willingness to ambush men in their homes. I suspect if you wanted to kill him, you could have done it earlier, when you broke a beer mug in his face.”
“I didn’t intend the mug to break,” Clint said. “Maybe the Lucky Lady isn’t so first rate.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
The waiter came over with a pot of coffee and two cups—excellent china, Clint noticed. The man poured for them and then withdrew.
“You said a little bit of both.”
“My boss has not only told me to lay off you as a suspect, but to try to solicit your help in solving these murders.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
“Well, that’s what I’m telling you.”
The lieutenant frowned.
“So you won’t help?”
“Am I still instructed to stay in San Francisco?” Clint asked.
“No, you’re free to leave whenever you like.”
Now that he was committed to helping Lily Kingsforth there was no way Clint could just leave.
“So what do you say?”
“I’m committed to something else,” Clint said, “but I don’t see why I couldn’t lend a hand.”
“You’ll work with my inspectors?”
“Burns and Logan?”
The man nodded.
“Logan’s a little full of himself, but I like Burns,” Clint said. “Let’s say I’ll coordinate with them.”
“I’m instructed to tell you to play it however you want to,” Hargrove said.
“This doesn’t make you happy, does it?”
“No,” Hargrove said, candidly, “it doesn’t, but my goal is to catch a killer, and I don’t much care how it gets done.”
If Clint managed to catch the killer, or figure out who it was, that could only reflect well on Hargrove and his men. If Clint failed, that wouldn’t bother Hargrove much, either. The lieutenant was in a win-win situation, and Clint was experienced enough with life to know that you always took advantage of such situations.
“Please understand,” Hargrove said, “I have nothing against you. In fact, I have a great deal of respect for you, but this is my backyard.”
“Understood,” Clint said. “I am perfectly willing to do what you want me to do—help, or stay out of it.”
“What I want has nothing to do with anything,” Hargrove said, “except that, as I said, I want to catch a killer.”
“Or killers.”
“Yes,” Hargrove said, “there is always that possibility, isn’t there?”
THIRTY-TWO
This time Clint walked the policeman out to the lobby, where they split up. Hargrove went out the front door and Clint walked to the front desk.
“Can you send a telegram for me?” he asked the clerk.
“I’ll have it done, sir.”
Clint wrote out a message to William Pinkerton, basically telling the man he’d stay in San Francisco a few more days. He didn’t bother to tell him why.
“Thank you,” he said, handing the message to the clerk.
“Certainly, Mr. Adams.”
Clint was turning to leave when the clerk said, “Uh, sir?”
“Yes?”
The clerk looked both ways and behind Clint, then risked a look behind himself before leaning over the desk and lowering his voice.
“There was a man in the lobby earlier,” he said, “who watched you and the lieutenant go into the dining room.”
“What did he look like?”
“In his thirties, dark hair, rather disheveled, not well dressed at all.”
“And where did he go?”
“After you and the lieutenant went into the dining room he waited for about fifteen minutes, then left.”
“Well, if you see him again, try to get his name.”
“How do I do that, sir?”
“Ask him.”
“Um, ask him?”
“You should probably find out who he is and if you can help him, right?” Clint asked. “I mean, you’d do that with anyone, wouldn’t you?”
“Well . . . I suppose so.”
“And if I’m around,” Clint said, “send somebody to find me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you don’t want to ask who he is, tell your boss,” Clint said. “I’m sure she’ll do it.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Kingsforth is not afraid of anyone.”
“I can believe that,” Clint said. “Thanks for the information.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the man said, puffing out his chest. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can.”
He turned and headed for the door.
Outside Lieutenant Hargrove found Burns and Logan waiting across the street. He crossed over and joined them in front of another hotel.
“So what do you think?” Burns asked.
“He didn’t do it,” Hargrove said.
“But does he know anything?” Logan asked.
“If he does, he’s agreed to help us,” the lieutenant said.
“You must have mixed feelings about that, Lieutenant,” Burns said.
“You got that right,” Hargrove said. “I don’t want some amateur meddling in our case, but then again, he is the Gunsmith.”<
br />
“He’s not a detective,” Logan said.
“And he freely admits that, himself,” Hargrove said. “But he might be of some help, so you boys are gonna work with him.”
“You mean he’s gonna work with us, don’t ya?” Logan asked.
“However you need to look at it,” Hargrove said. “Just catch me a killer.”
Hargrove walked away. Burns turned to Logan and said, “Or killers.”
Clint stopped just outside the front door to get his bearings.
Eddie MacDonald, dead.
Walter Trench, dead.
Peter Forrest, dead.
And somebody tried to kill Lily Kingsforth.
But what about her husband? He had died two years ago, but how? Could a death two years earlier be connected to these?
And were these connected to the Diamond Palace, or to Allan Pinkerton, who had died at least four years earlier?
He needed as much information on the dead men as possible, and he decided to start with Lily’s husband. Clint needed to know when he died and how.
More than that he needed to know what his name was and who he was.
THIRTY-THREE
Clint found Lily in her office.
“Developments already?” she asked, as he walked in.
“If you call being asked by the police to help developments, then I guess the answer is yes,” he said, seating himself across from her.
“What? Well, does that mean you’re not a suspect?” she asked.
“Looks like it does.”
She sat back in her chair. “But you’re still working for me, right?”
“Definitely,” he said, “but I’m wondering if all of these murders are connected.”
“How do you propose to find out?”
“By asking questions.”
“Starting with me?”
“Well,” he said, “I never did find out your husband’s name or how he died.”
A pained look passed over her face.
“I’m sorry to bring up painful memories,” he said.
“No, that’s all right,” she said. “His name was Paul and he was killed one night, down the street from here.”
“Killed how?”
“He was robbed,” she said. “And stabbed.”
“And what did the police find out?”
“Nothing,” she said. “They never found who did it.”
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